


The Physical Bob

by Skud



Category: Master and Commander
Genre: M/M, flagitious wig abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-25
Updated: 2009-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jack," Stephen cried in distress, "I will not stand for it any more. Those young gentlemen have absconded with my wig!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Physical Bob

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for an LJ community devoted to [flagitious wig abuse](http://community.livejournal.com/flagitiousabuse/). The chapters were originally posted separately as "The Physical Bob", "Revenge of the Physical Bob", and "The Physical Bob Strikes Back", but since they all form one narrative I've joined them together here.

Stephen burst into the great cabin where Jack was going over accounts with the purser. The two men looked up, and saw the doctor standing in the doorway in a state of even greater disarray than usual. His waistcoat was smeared with some dark unmentionable substance, his shirt was grimy, his breeches unbuckled at the knee, and the dark stubble on his chin almost matched the bristly growth on his head.

"Jack," he cried in distress, "I will not stand for it any more. Those young _gentlemen_ have absconded with my wig!"

The captain and the purser fought against the smiles which crept unbidden to their countenances. Jack gained control first. "Thank you, Mr Adams, that will be all," he said, seeing the purser out. "Now, Stephen, surely it is no great loss? It was a horrible old thing, you know."

"It was a perfectly good physical bob, I assure you; I paid a guinea for it not three years hence; it has a great deal of wear in it yet."

Killick, arriving with the madiera, was heard to mutter, "horrid ole thing, no better than an ole thrum-cap, it ain't," in his usual complaining manner; as well as being the captain's steward, he also attended to the doctor's needs, and had known and cared for the wig for many a year. Old, it was, and almost bare in places; only the most assiduous care and powdering could make it respectable, and Killick begrudged every minute spent on it that could more properly be put to polishing the captain's silver. He sidled out again, leaving Jack and Stephen to themselves.

"Now, tell me what happened. Surely you aren't accusing the midshipmen of theft?"

"I most certainly am, my dear," said Stephen, somewhat mollified, as he took a seat and a glass of wine. "I was in the maintop, observing a rather unusual pelican, when they scampered past me -- skylarking, as you would call it -- and snatched it from my very head. I attempted to pursue them to the crosstrees..."

"Stephen! I have told you a thousand times not to --"

"... but they skipped quite away from me, the creatures. Now they are perched in the highest pinnacle they could reach, and will not come down, despite my most earnest entreaties."

"Well now, that won't do at all. The young scamps. I shall bring them down myself, and have them soundly flogged."

"Faith, Jack, I did not mean to suggest such a thing. Retrieve my wig, sure, I would be most grateful for it. But you must not abuse those poor boys so; no, worse, you abuse your own power, and cause great harm to your dear self; for what man, placed in tyranny over his fellow men, is not tainted by the experience of it?"

"You and your revolutionary fervour; you know very well that there must be discipline, and I will not have you spouting your ridiculous democratic... I mean, I meant to say, we cannot have those boys skylarking in such a manner; they might do themselves an injury, don't you see? It is for their own good."

With that, and before Stephen could answer, he threw off his coat and strode on deck. Swinging himself up into the main shrouds, he raced aloft, and by the time the doctor had followed him abovedecks Jack was heaving himself up the reverse incline of the futtock-shrouds into the top. The midshipmen, who were settled in the topgallant crosstrees trying on the wig and making antic gestures, were unaware of the captain's approach until his solid weight on the topgallantmast shrouds made their perch sway under them. They looked down in dismay, saw the captain's red face, and almost jumped out of their skins when he roared, "Mr Calamy, Mr Williamson! You will descend immediately, sirs, and await me in my cabin. With the doctor's wig, if you please; and God help you if any harm has come to it."

No discernable harm had come to it, given its already dreadful state, which was more than could be said for Calamy and Williamson's buttocks half an hour later. They scurried from the cabin, pulling their pants up and buttoning them, followed by Jack who, wig in hand, went below in search of his friend.

He found him in his cramped surgeon's berth, a book in one hand while the other scratched at his short uncovered hair. "There you are, Stephen. I have found your wig for you." Stephen smiled and stood up, too quickly, and as the ship lurched he struck his head on a beam. He sat down again with a thump, quite dazed.

"Are you alright?" Jack was at his side in a moment. "No blood, but you shall have a mighty great lump, I'll warrant."

"Are you a doctor now, Jack? I am perfectly well. Though I would have been better had I been protected by my wig."

"You would not have hit your head at all if you were not such a lubber."

"Leave off, for all love. Do you intend to stand there all day with it in your hand, or may I have it now?" Stephen was much given to petulance, but Jack merely grinned.

"You do look rather better without it, I find. One might almost say handsome, if you were to shave and leave off that dreadful old waistcoat. Why, you would be fighting off the ladies' attentions every time we went ashore."

"And why should I want to do that, pray? As a ship's surgeon I am only too aware of what happens when men fall into the hands of ladies ashore. I cannot understand why the common sailor has such a predilection for such company; I would not wish it for the world."

"No, indeed." Jack looked uncomfortable for a moment, avoiding Stephen's eye, then rallied. "You shall have your wig on two conditions, my dear."

"And what might those be?"

"The first is that you will not go above the top without me; and to ensure it, I have set Calamy and Williamson to guard you watch and watch about, every time you so much as set a foot on a ratline."

"You think poorly of my seamanship, I find."

"After all these years, do you blame me, friend?"

"Dear joy, I assure you, I am quite an old sea-dog by now."

"Nevertheless, you will not have your wig unless you promise."

"Very well. And your second condition?"

"When you come to my cabin this evening, or any evening, you will remove your wig and place it on the locker out of sight, so that I can better enjoy your company. You do look _much_ better without it, my dear."

A slow mischievous curl appeared at the corners of Stephen's mouth, though he answered with as even a voice as he could muster. "With pleasure, my dear. For your comfort, I would willingly forego any item of attire you might request."


	2. The Physical Bob Strikes Back

"Why, Stephen, there you are. I thought you had forgotten we were to play tonight."

"Never in life, my dear. I was just completing my rounds; there is a worrying crushed foot which may have to come off; but I will wait until morning, at least, and see how it does. Shall we tackle the Scarlatti again?"

"No. Wait." Stephen stopped with one hand on the back of his chair, looking questioningly at the Captain. "You have forgotten your solemn promise. For shame, Stephen."

"Ah," replied Stephen. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, and he reached up and removed his horrible old scrub wig from his head. He placed it carefully on the padded locker, behind Jack's back and out of view. "Are you satisfied?"

"Well, as for satisfaction, I do not believe any man is ever satisfied without he has a full stomach and... well, best not mentioned, but the full stomach at least we may address. Killick, Killick there! Bring us some toasted cheese, d'ye hear? And the madiera with the yellow label." He turned back to his friend. "In any case, I am happy that you have taken that frightful thing off. You look much better without, as I think I have mentioned before."

"Indeed you have, my dear, twice already; if you mention it with sufficient frequency I may even become used to the idea. I will admit I feel naked with my head so uncovered." He looked wistfully at the wig, which lay forlorn and limp on the locker, its powder sparse and its curls uncurling. He sighed and took his rosin from his pocket.

"May I use that after you?" asked Jack. "I cannot seem to find my own."

Preserved Killick, the captain's long-suffering ill-humoured steward, entered bearing a tray. He set out a decanter, glasses, and a complex silver affair containing six portions of toasted cheese. "Which it is the last of the cheddar," he informed them, and was about to shuffle out when Jack called out to him. "Killick, take the Doctor's wig away and do something with it, would you?"

"Like what?" asked Killick. "Sir," he added belatedly.

"Burn it, ha ha." He caught Stephen's look and corrected himself. "Just... just take it away, and clean it. Or curl it. Powder it, patch it, whatever is necessary. But do take it away, Killick."

Killick departed, holding Stephen's wig between an outstretched thumb and forefinger. Jack took up his fiddle and played a sprightly flourish to match the gleeful expression on his face.

"It pleases you to be amused at my discomfiture, I find," said Stephen sourly.

"It pleases me to be able to look at you without that horrible distraction atop your phiz," replied the captain. "Why, Stephen," he said, looking more closely at him now, "I believe you have shaved, too."

Stephen rubbed his chin, but did not deign to reply to the observation. Instead he said, "I have worn a physician's wig since ever I graduated as a Doctor of Medicine. You would not thank me to make mock of your cocked hat, would you?"

"But my best scraper is nothing like as ghastly. Nor do I allow mice to nest in it, nor use it as a cosy for the coffee pot. Are you done with the rosin?"

Stephen handed it over grimly, and began to tune his instrument. "You do not look so beautiful in a wig, yourself," he observed.

"That is why I do not wear one."

"You were quite gruesome in that yellow thing you wore in Mahon after we took the Cacafuego; everybody commented on it, even Molly Harte."

"Ha! Such days! I was bruised and burnt all over, and we were invited to more dinners than we could eat in a year."

"No doubt they pitied you, wearing a haystack on your head, for all love."

"Well, I have quite renounced it now. You see me before you with my own golden locks, grown back as good as new." With that he took up his bow, and they began to play. The Scarlatti D Minor was an old friend, and they knew it well. Though they had the music before them on the table, Jack did not need it, and often looked up at Stephen while he played. Stephen, in his turn, caught Jack's friendly gaze and held it as he bowed, until a difficult passage forced him back to the notes on the paper before him.

At last the music came to a close, and they refreshed themselves with the Madiera. "A toast," proposed Stephen, in excellent humour, "A toast to your golden tresses, my dear."

"And to you, Stephen, and your... your beauty."

They looked at each other, momentarily confused, and drank.

"Jack, I have no misconceptions; I do not pretend that I am particularly handsome. I thank you for your flattery, but I am sure you say it only because you wish me to renounce my wig."

"Do you give me the lie, sir?" The twinkle in Jack's blue eyes belied the seriousness of his words.

"No indeed, never in life. I apologise most profoundly, I am sure. If you insist upon my beauty, I must accept it as God's own truth."

"I do. Though only because you have shaved. And if you would just take off that abominable waistcoat..."

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Would you be so kind as to pour me another glass, my dear?" Jack reached for the wide-bottomed decanter and poured, as Stephen unbuttoned his stained and abused waistcoat and shrugged it off his shoulders. "There, will I pass inspection?"

"Fit for the Admiral of the Fleet, my dear. Or you would be if... Stephen, _what_ is that dreadful stain on your shirt?"

"This? Oh, I was dissecting a rare cephalopod; a variety of cuttlefish, I believe, though it has an anomalous ink sac..."

"It will never do. You would disgrace the ship. You must take it off at once."

Stephen's chin quivered as he attempted to disguise his mirth. "Jack, are you speaking as my friend, or as the Captain?"

Jack's face was suddenly serious. "Which would you prefer?"

Stephen returned his gaze, and considered a moment before answering. "If you were to speak as my friend, I should oblige you purely for the love I feel for you; however if you speak as the Captain I would be obliged to obey... and you would have to wear your cocked hat."

"And if I were to speak as your friend _and_ put on my best scraper with the gold lace?"

"Then I could deny you nothing in the world, my dear. The bottle stands by you, Jack."

Jack filled both their glasses again, and raised his own to propose another toast. "Confusion to Buonaparte!" he cried. "You know, the French Revolution... it was all about the wigs, I am sure of it."

Stephen opened his mouth, but could think of no retort, and sat there gaping dumbly. He upended his glass, then regarded his friend. Jack reached across to the table where his best hat lay, and settled it firmly on his head. "Well now, Stephen, will you take off that shameful shirt? And then we might play our Corelli in C major."

They knew the suite so well that neither of them required the sheet music; they had played it together innumerable times, and their notes now twined together, Stephen's 'cello and Jack's fiddle passing the tune back and forth with an easy familiarity; and yet it was not so familiar, as Stephen sat bare-chested in the cool evening air. Ordinarily he had no shame for his body; as a surgeon he was quite familiar with the human form and was used to baring his own when swimming or taking the sun; yet Jack's gaze across the bridge of his violin caused Stephen to blush with a sudden sensibility of his own exposure.

Jack, not ordinarily a perceptive man, was for once exquisitely aware of Stephen's discomposure, and revelled in it. It was delightful to see the red spots rise in his cheeks, and to watch the light and shadow on his bare skin as he bowed and fingered his way through a difficult passage.

Suddenly, with a discordant scrape, Stephen broke off. He threw his bow down on the table, and stood with a look of triumphant glee on his face. "Jack!" he cried, "You devil, you sly creature!"

"What is it, Stephen?"

"Why, you artful fox! You thought I should not recall... but though I know very little of English law, I am sure of this much!"

"I beg your pardon, Stephen?" Jack was quite disconcerted.

"You are lord of the manor at Woolcombe. You are a Justice of the Peace."

"Yes?"

"Renounced it, for shame! You may try to outwit me, but though I may be a dreadful lubber when it comes to your naval arcana, you will not better me by land."

"Stephen, I do not follow you at all."

"Why, Jack, you are a Justice of the Peace: you wear a magistrate's wig!"

Jack threw back his head and laughed. "You have me, Stephen; I am dished. And here I thought I had the moral advantage of you. Must I strike my colours and hand you my sword?"

"You must pay a forfeit, my dear."

"A forfeit?"

"Certainly; you must remove your own shirt, to place us on an equal footing, and then when we have finished our Corelli we may consider the matter further." He picked up his bow, and waited expectantly.


	3. Revenge of the Physical Bob

"Tweedle tweedle, scrape scrape," muttered Killick under his breath. "They'll be at it all night, or my name ain't Preserved." He gave the wig one last dusting of powder and set it aside. Taking a swig from a half-bottle of madiera ("which it's perquisites, innit?"), he turned at last to the stack of silver which had been sitting waiting for his attention.

"Well, my pretties..." he said, running a finger along the gadrooned border of a large platter. He licked his lips, and reached for his polishing cloth.

In the great cabin, the Captain and the ship's surgeon were reaching the end of their favourite Corelli sonata. Their bows drew the final, lingering note from their instruments; they lifted them off the strings simultaneously and put them down.

"Beautiful, my dear," said Stephen softly.

"We have seldom played better."

"I was not talking about the music."

Jack was standing by the stern windows, bathed in warm lamplight, bare-chested but otherwise fully dressed: breeches, stockings, shoes, and, improbably, his best gold-laced hat. Stephen's gaze lingered on his brown skin, crossed by innumerable scars; he knew it better than his own.

"Jack, I do believe you are blushing."

"Not at all; I am merely wondering what you are planning."

"Planning?"

"Do not try to act innocent with me, sir; you have that look in your eye; I have seen it before, that night you induced me to play strip piquet with you and Diana and Heneage Dundas. I could barely look him in the eye when I met him aboard the flagship last week; I was quite sure he was remembering every detail."

"I presume, in that case, you would not fancy a hand of cards this evening?"

"Well, I do not say so. But you do have rather a habit of winning, Stephen."

"What else would you expect me to do, for all love?"

"Well, you might let your particular friend win a hand or two, at least."

"No, no, I could not bring myself to do it. But I will offer you this," he said, his pale eyes twinkling with mischief, "I will spare you the humiliation of defeat, if you will relinquish a single small item."

Jack eyed him suspiciously. "_Which_ single small item?"

"Why, only your hair ribbon."

Jack's eyes narrowed to slits as he considered and calculated; for a moment Stephen saw the captain as he appeared on the quarterdeck during battle. Then, just as quickly as he would order a broadside against a French frigate, he reached behind his neck to untie his clubbed pigtail.

Stephen had been lost in contemplation of Jack's strong arms and shoulders for several moments when Jack said, "Dash it, the knot is too tight. Have you any fingernails, Stephen?"

"No, but..." Stephen reached into the pocket of his discarded waistcoat and withdrew a small surgical instrument; in three paces he was standing behind Jack, carefully cutting at the ribbon. It parted, and he set the knife carefully aside; with the skill acquired by long exposure to bandages, he unwound the black strip of fabric and rolled it neatly. Jack's hair was braided underneath. Putting the ribbon in his breeches pocket, he worked his fingers into the interwoven strands, drawing them apart deftly until Jack's hair lay softly waved on his shoulders.

"There." As the word passed Stephen's lips, he realised he had broken a silence between them. Jack's breath was shallow, and Stephen could perceive a curious tension in his shoulders. He realised his hand was still entwined in Jack's hair, and he loosened his fingers to rest his palm against Jack's neck. The warmth, where their skin touched, surprised him. His head swam; _how_ much madiera had they drunk? He forced himself to breathe deeply. "There," he repeated.

Jack remained tensely silent, and Stephen was suddenly, vividly aware of the mere inches between their bodies. In the cool evening air, the heat of their bare skin seemed to radiate off them; where they nearly touched, it was reflected between them until it seemed hot enough to burn. Without any kind of volition, his hand trailed across Jack's neck to his shoulder, tracing lines of muscle and scar tissue, exerting a firm pressure. "I have never known a finer specimen," he thought to himself, "Trapezius, deltoid... living flesh; warm, supple, living flesh." Seldom had he so closely examined a shoulder, a back, a chest; no rotting cadaver, this. His hand reached around under Jack's arm, coming to rest on his sternum; he felt the strong heart beating under his hand, and drew Jack close against him; his lips pressed against Jack's shoulder.

He felt the muscles relax under his lips -- Jack had been waiting for this, Stephen realised -- then Jack spun around, wrapping his arms around Stephen's thin body, drawing their bare chests together, and brought his lips down firmly on his mouth. Stephen returned his kiss fervently, his astonishment and delight quickly overcome by the heady flavour of Jack's tongue. He opened his mouth, willingly accepting the invasion, and was disappointed when Jack withdrew to say, "So, it was just my hair-ribbon you wanted?"

Stephen leaned towards him, chasing his retreating lips, speaking between kisses: "I would have been quite content, my dear." Another flicker of his tongue. "I asked for nothing more than the sight of your golden tresses."

"And yet, dear doctor," replied Jack with a gasp as Stephen nipped at his lower lip, "you would appear to be taking somewhat more."

"Well, you did take my wig. And I am sure," (another nip), "that it is no lawful prize."

Jack grasped at Stephen's hair, short stubble at the nape of his neck, but just enough to hold on to. "Do you presume, sir, to quote the Articles of War to your captain?" He rolled his eyes upwards, indicating the gold-laced hat which he still, absurdly, wore.

"Never in life, my dear," Stephen gasped.

"That is probably just as well," remarked Jack, as he bent down to bring his mouth to Stephen's throat, "for I am sure there is something there about how one should not strip officers of their clothes."

Later, Stephen would be thankful that he had been unable to reply; Jack's other hand, reaching downwards to the placket of his breeches, had quite driven away all thought of other articles pertinent to the situation. The brush of Jack's wrist against his belly as he undid the buttons made Stephen shiver; the placket undone, Jack slipped both of his hands inside the waistband, one on either side, and running them down over Stephen's thighs pushed the breeches and drawers down past his knees. Stephen reached out and steadied himself on the table; he could not tell and did not care whether it was the slow swell of the sea or Jack's caresses that unbalanced him as he stepped out of his tangled garments.

Jack embraced him again, more ardently than before; his large, calloused hands roamed over Stephen's body, settling in the small of his back and drawing him insistently closer. Stephen moved against him, kissing him hungrily, feeling the rough wool of Jack's own breeches against his bare skin; and beneath the wool, a firmness that matched his own. His hand slid between their bodies; as he made his way to Jack's buttons he brushed against the undeniable tumescence swelling behind the cloth. Stephen tore his lips away from Jack's for a moment, and murmured, "I believe you have the advantage of me, sir."

"Quite right," replied Jack in an equally low voice, "How ungentlemanly; pray excuse me." He gently pushed Stephen's hands aside, stepped back a pace, and in a trice had removed his own breeches, stockings and shoes. When he had finished, he sketched a minute bow. Stephen could not contain a smirk.

"Stephen," cried Jack, "You cad!" He put his hands on his hips, and attempted to look stern. "I have put up with all manner of outrageous behaviour from you, but this is the limit: don't you know it ain't polite to laugh at a man when he removes his breeches? Oh." He had caught Stephen's mirthful gaze flicking towards his head. He reached up and removed his cocked hat, placing it on the locker. "Well, I suppose I will forgive you this once."

"I thank you, my dear; much as I respect your abilities as a captain, I fear my present inclinations might be considered mutinous." With this the smirk fell from his face; he closed the distance between them, and, despite their disparity in size he managed, by the ardour of his kisses and a hand entangled roughly in Jack's loose hair, to draw him to the ground.

Stephen had always known Jack to be a straightforward man, more comfortable with the action of a close engagement than the subtlety and intrigue of politics; Diana had once suggested that he behaved true to form in more intimate encounters, and Stephen was not at all surprised to find him enthusiastically direct.

"Steady, joy," said Stephen, grasping Jack by the wrists and placing a kiss on the underside of each one. "There is no need for haste; no need for your naval celerity, forsooth."

"Killick..." said Jack.

"Killick is no doubt engaged with the silver by now; I do not imagine we need fear any interruption."

With that he pressed the length of his body against Jack's, legs entwined, and nuzzled his neck even as one hand trailed langourously down Jack's chest to his striving prick. Jack gasped as Stephen's hand encircled it, and reached out to reciprocate. His grip was urgent, insistent. "Gently, gently," Stephen murmured. "Adagio, pianissimo..." He smiled as Jack's grip shifted, then moaned; he should not have been surprised to remember that the captain's one incongruous area of subtlety was music, yet he had hardly expected to be played with such skill.

Never had they played such a duet; yet in all the long evenings together, during which they had improvised on innumerable themes, they had learnt to read each other, to know when to lead and when to follow, when to join together in unison and when to finish. Their lips met again, and their tongues and hands drew gasps and whimpers from each others' mouths. At last their caresses reached a crescendo, and each spent within moments of the other.

They lay faintly sheened in sweat on the checkered deck-cloth, Jack's laboured breathing slowly returning to normal as he ran his fingertips through Stephen's short hair. Stephen lay heavy against his side, as if dead, but after a while he stirred and rose up on one elbow.

"Thank you," he said, seriously.

Jack laughed. "Thank _you_, my dear. I had no idea we would have such a pleasurable evening."

"Did you not? In truth, I find I am not so surprised."

"Stephen! Surely you did not expect --"

"Well, I know you are an ardent Tory."

"What the devil do you mean by that?"

"One never knows to what lengths you might go to oppose Whiggery."


End file.
